


do you remember that, B?

by gothbats



Series: whumptober [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Is Trying His Best, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father Son Bonding, Gen, No Slash, Protective Bruce Wayne, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, get the fuck out of here no slash i mean it, i wrote this instead of studying for my midterms, tw kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26787874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothbats/pseuds/gothbats
Summary: let's hang out sometime, in the hands of the enemy.--or, one where dick grayson and bruce wayne are kidnapped togehter.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: whumptober [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953349
Comments: 6
Kudos: 78
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	do you remember that, B?

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! welcome to my first whumptober. i combined number 1 and 2.
> 
> prompts: waking up restrained, shackled, hanging, "pick who dies," and kidnapped.
> 
> i'm still bad with comics and haven't read as many as i'd like, but it's set possibly around agent dick grayson era. i really hope i did them justice. i love whump with comfort, i need to have comfort in fics.
> 
> tw for kidnapping, gun violence, general violence blood mentions.

Dick comes back to consciousness gasping, freefalling from air and reaches to grab the nearest object he can find.

His right foot is caught, and he scrambles to curl into a ball, and oh.. 

He’s a foot above the ground, hanging upside down and shackled to the ceiling. His heart thuds in his chest, feels a headache blooming, and feels the dizziness from all the blood rushing to his face. He’s hot, too hot, and nauseated, fuck, the fluorescent light in this.. cell? It’s too fucking bright.

His vision is too blurry to focus, but he can make out a couple of bodies standing nearby and the small holding cell he’s being held captive in.

And he can now hear past his hyperventilated breaths, and he tried to focus but both his ears were clogged from this position. He hears two men, and.. Bruce?

Shit, what the fuck is Bruce doing here, too?

He thinks he hears Bruce growl in his Batman voice, “You let him go _right now_ before I beat you to a pulp with those shackles! Take me! Leave him _alone!_ ”

“You’re tied up, too, old man,” a man scoffs. “Hey, hey, hey.. Wait. I know you!’

“Leave my _son_ out of this! I know you know who I am.” Bruce growls, his voice dangerous, and Dick shivers. He knows exactly what Bruce Wayne, the Batman is capable of, and doesn’t know how close he’ll dangerously tease the line of morality once his family is involved. And Dick hears every threat of the Bat, lodged in the back of Bruce’s throat.

“Alright, maybe we can get the whole family in on this, too!” the ringleader shouts and steps closer to Dick, “I didn’t expect to get _this_ lucky gunning down some cafe in Gotham. Maybe we can get all the Wayne kids. How many are there now?”

“Exactly!” the second in command smiles, We can even make our ‘ole pal here _pick who dies_. Get the whole bratty family in.”

“ _B_ ,” Dick breathes, afraid he’s too far gone to even be heard by the older man or see his face immediately soften or notice a knot in his chest.

\--

Bruce honest to God sees red, he sways on his feet, because nobody touches his own fucking kids. Nobody. There is no fucking way to be morally upstanding in this situation. His kids aren’t Nightwing, Red Robin, or Robin, they’re his _kids_. Not their alter-egos. And if they fucking realize Jason Todd is back in the picture.. they’d probably get the fucking Joker in on this.

Bruce is ugly, he’s snarling, he’s ready to tear each man apart by their throats, he’s mean, he’s staring at Dick in front of him who passed back out again, his _son_ is restrained and bleeding and grabs each man by the collar to demand them around.

He’s in a haze, he needs to play the right cards, the correct role, because the Bat won’t come to save them in this holding cell they’re trapped in. 

Bruce snarls, “Touch any of my sons, and you _will_ pay. I will personally see to it every bone in your fucking bodies are broken.”

The group breaks out into laughter, and he winces with the headache from the metal bat they used to render him unconscious. “Alright, Wayne. We don’t want that much trouble here. Though, we will try to bring your kids into this. Five million, just as we promised before we showed you this surprise.”

Bruce breathes, squaring up his posture and staring down at the men. “As long as you promise to give us the requested amount of money. And you don’t try to escape. In exchange, we won’t hurt him.”

“Get him down _now_ and we’ll talk.”

\--

Dick had never heard Bruce Wayne speak like this; only batman. It was dangerous. It was grave. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, he takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down, his ankle bleeds and drips down his body, and this prison cell smells acidic. 

What had gone wrong?

One of the men approached Dick, he froze like a deer in headlights and braced himself for whatever was coming, _I’m gonna die here_.

The shackle wrapped around his ankle is loosened with the sound of chains resonating in the air, and he crashed into the ground and felt his ribs shove into his chest and his shoulder collide with the ground.

Thank fuck he could sit upright now, he slumps down onto the ground before he can even sit up weakly. Bruce is at his side in a second, lunging down to grab him and feels his warm hands holding him. 

“Come on, Dick,” Bruce murmurs and pulls him up slowly. Bruce bears most of his weight with no effort, but acts strained in front of their captors. Dick squints around, remembering the faces from the cafe when he arrived. He hadn’t seen Bruce shown up yet and had hoped he was running late. He wasn’t.

“Dad,” Dick tests his voice, not meaning to sound so scared but it helps their act. If they wanted to play an ordinary family angle, like they used to be, Dick would act it out, too. 

They’re both ziptied before they can move again, wrists held behind their backs. They’re jostled along down a hallway, and Dick can see Bruce calculating the entire building. The bricks, how old are they, what metal lines the hallway, if there are any windows, what time is it and the older man’s shoulders sag.

He’s shoved into the room first. The area is fairly small, 5 by 10 feet. There is a cot against the wall, a metal toilet, a metal sink, and an empty bookshelf. The cell has metal bars for a door, Bruce guesses by the building’s layout this building is from a district built on the outskirts of Gotham. It’s abandoned and never paid much mind to. Bruce really did mean to discuss improvements with city hall.

Dick jumps at the sound of the metal doors slamming shut, the ringleader demanding they go to bed early. They have a busy day planned tomorrow. He leaves with a wink.

\--

Their cell is guarded by two of the goons, and they have to keep up the act even alone. One guard-goons stares at them into the cell, staring at his partner while he glares out into the cell block hallway with their rifles. Their god damn assault rifles.

Bruce watches Dick glance around the room, dazed, and taking the time to subtly find anything while the guards are distracted. He is the first one to find the camera directly outside the cell on the ceiling, peering into their cell. He searches Dick’s face for any indication that he’s found it, but finds exhaustion and worry lines instead.

“Go to bed, Dick, I’ll stay awake,” Bruce insists, he nods his head towards the cot and steps forward to Dick, examining him for any injuries he might have missed.

“Are you crazy, Bruce?” Dick asks, blinking with a frown.

Bruce isn’t sure what he said wrong, he’s worried for him and wants the young man to rest. His eldest always challenged back once being told what to do, and he knows this entire capture is going to change Dick forever. His kids seemed to avoid him in high tension, or snapped during those times, and he already was dreading the fact.

Bruce searches the cell, examining the metal door. He knows with the correct amount of blunt force, he could bend the bars, find the right spot where the metal is corroded or worn down it probably wouldn’t resist 100 pounds of force. He’d possibly need to use 200-300 pounds of force. That’s easy.

What isn’t easy is Dick resisting him right now, refusing any sleep. With both of them concussed and hoping their brains and arteries aren’t secretly hemorrhaging, Dick needs rest after bieng hit upside the head with the metal bat.

He saw it happen, too late to stop it. Bruce flinched when Dick immediately went cold, unaware of his own presence in the cafe. 

“I’m fine. You need rest, I’ll watch out for us,” Dick had lowered his voice, and Bruce guesses he’s attempting to reel the guards in and pique their interest in what they’re whispering about. “Please.”

“Can we get these zip ties off?” Bruce asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer and is already motioning for Dick to sit down on the bed impatiently. He turns his back to Dick, seeing if he can leverage on their hands both tied behind their backs. “My kid has a concussion, his ankle is fractured, and his hands have restricted blood flow. They’re probably fractured, too. You already got his vomit on your shoes. He isn’t resisting and once we are out of here.”

The guards turned towards them warily, and the man rolled his eyes before retrieving a knife from behind him. “Fine. No funny business, though, or me and my buddy here won’t hesitate to hurt you even more.”

The metal clunks when opened. Conveniently, the goon guard outside raises his rifle. Dick’s hands were released first, and he cradled both of them to his chest. He sighs, and Bruce freezes when he feels a warm weight against his side. Dick sighs, leaning against his shoulder. He takes this time to press a kiss to Dick’s forehead.

The goon cuts his zip ties off, forcefully, eyeing him dubiously and leaves. Bruce keeps an eye trained on him, watching the figure disappear from the cell. Bruce notices the camera in the hallway blinking blue, and it follows the goon guards who speak outside their cell.

So, the camera picks up sounds, too, and possibly has night vision. 

“You okay, chum?” Bruce asks, soothing his voice and he thinks this is the gentlest he’s spoken to Dick since the night of the circus. Bruce grabs the younger boy’s chin, tilting his face towards him and the hallway. The camera outside the room jostles with small mechanical whirrings, and Bruce flickers his eyes towards the hell.

Dick’s eyes immediately follow. He lights up in acknowledgement and stares past him at the camera. Bruce reaches up to touch his face, wiping blood from his nose and murmurs, “Camera might have night vision. I wonder how much noise it picks up.”

Bruce hoped Dick took the hint to investigate, so they could both figure out the quality of the security camera. 

Dick stands slowly from the bed, grabbing onto the metal railings of the bed and steadies himself. He walks a short distance to the adjacent side of the room, and Bruce hears the camera panning towards Dick and he uses a normal speaking voice. “You sleep on the cot, _dad_.”

Bruce speaks in a slightly lower volume, nearly a whisper. “Come on, Dick. Just take the spot next to the wall.”

Bruce is thankful for this charade game they’re playing, of father and son. He knows Dick is pretending. It is late, they’re exhausted, they need sleep before they find out what is to come.

Dick sighs, finally listening to Bruce. The bed is too narrow, and Dick had grown since the last time Bruce remembers sharing a bed with his son years ago. He sometimes inserts himself into Bruce’s space, possibly seeking affection or merely messing with him, or took his large body’s advantage and took a comfortable spot in the couch and sunk into Bruce’s side sometimes. It was rare, and his chest warms at the memories. It’s all just an act right now from Dick. He’s sure of it.

Bruce settles his weight into the cot, the thing about to break under the both of them and Dick turns his head. “I’m sorry, B. I shouldn’t have used your name like that, offering money to get out of it. I didn’t know you arrived at the cafe yet.“

“Dick..”

“No, no, none of this is your fault. I know you’re going to blame yourself, but please listen. I don’t want you to be tortured because of _me_. Because I have to play Bruce’s ward and adopted son.”

“You’re going to have to live with it.” 

“ _Why_?” Dick hisses, closes his eyes, but decides this conversation is too much.

Bruce shifts towards Dick, finding his shoulder and reaching for his cheek. He had spoken above the threshold they found, and he knew the camera found them. 

“We cannot use our full strength. If we are caught, there goes our entire family because you wouldn’t let me take the beating. Do you want that?” Bruce asks, not willing his voice to shake. If only he would _listen._ Instead, he turns his back to him.

“How do we even know they aren’t humoring us and they won’t torture me again?” Dick asks, practically mumbling into the wall.

The ring leader had grabbed Bruce by the collar of his t-shirt and jacket earlier, his jewelry and wrist shoving into his face. He noticed a beaded bracelet, colorful, around the wrist with beads that spelled out a little girl’s name on it. “The leader wore a kid’s bracelet on his wrist when he attacked me. I knew he cared deeply for kids. And he will know in time what I will do to protect you. To protect my kid.”

  
  


There’s a lump in the back of Dick’s throat. He stubbornly turned to face the wall. The implication from Bruce that they are still father and son, like he hadn’t practically emancipated himself 5 years prior. 

He was nearly 27 now, and Gotham had called to him once more. He had newfound independence with the Titans, as Nightwing, and as an agent. He’d earned the trust of Bruce’s new kids, despite how uncomfortable he was with Bruce taking them in. He’d earned Tim’s trust, and tentatively Damian’s, and he gave Jason his space and occasionally checked in with him. He hopes Jason would understand why he worked hard to reinvent Arkham to keep him safe from himself. Cassandra and Duke weren’t with him as long, but sometimes they reached out to him. Today was a reminder to work harder and reach out again.

Dick blinked away his burning tears, the salt already leaking into his mouth. He scoots over some more to make Bruce space so they can both fall asleep easily.

The implication weighs heavily on his chest, an ache that had been stored far away inside him and waiting to gush out of him, coiling in every organ and bone. Dick, Bruce’s son, what he said he’d do to protect him. And not the other way around.

He turns back towards Bruce and buries his face in his shoulder. 

His father-figure stiffens, but he ignores it and allows himself this. He had missed this, it’s an all too familiar position from being a child in Bruce’s arms as his ward.

He had never been outright affectionate, a drastic change from his volatile parents and volatile and loving community while traveling with Haly’s circus. It was a family on its own. Bruce had always counted on his kids to be obvious and direct with what they needed, and went along with it. What he needed was for Bruce to be the one to initiate affection and their bond. 

Is he the same way with Tim? Tim is independent, and had been neglected and too far from himself to even dare seek affection. 

Damian had responded well to Dick as a teacher after being an unresponsive inconsiderate brat. Damian demanded respect be earned, and Bruce hadn’t responded well to that. He had gone from his responsibility to filling a big void in his heart, because the kid had a big heart. He hopes Bruce sees it, too.

He feels Bruce wrap an arm around him, letting him sink into him. Bruce revels in this feeling of being able to keep his son safe at the moment. Even if it’s the small victory of keeping him as a barrier for whomever comes through the door. 

Bruce cradles the back of his head, sweeping his thumb gently around his soft hair and hoping to soothe the headache Dick might be hiding from him. His own head pounds where the metal met his own skull. 

“It’s gonna be over soon, chum. We’ll both be alright. I’m okay if you are.”

\--

Morning came, and Dick felt nauseous from his concussion and anxiety. He blinked blearily, unable to see past blurriness. The space beside him was now unoccupied and too cold, he missed the warmth. 

This grabs his attention,immediately sitting up as fast as he can. _Bruce._

The captors drag Bruce away, and he winces attempting to stand on his injured ankle to grab onto him, to save him, to fight and get Bruce back to safety. He’s restrained again.

He falls to the floor, allowing himself to whimper, because the camaraderie of the cell block is too loud and he doesn’t care. He’s too pathetic at this moment, and they should have taken him.

Bruce’s body is dragged to a nearby cell, he isn’t resisting. He isn't fighting for himself. “Bruce!”

He fumbled the ball. He needed to fix this, and now, get them to take him instead. He stupidly told them Bruce Wayne would find him, he would give them millions because he’s fuckin’ insured. Bruce was dressed as a civilian, but he had fought back when half lucid. He didn’t _know_ when the guns were raised in the cafe, every innocent civilian at stake, that Bruce was one of them. He needed leverage. He’s the stubborn thorn in Bruce’s side that decided he wanted Bruce to leave the damn cave during a normal hour for once, he politely declined Alfred’s offer to make lunch. 

He dragged his body, squirming to the door of the cell, finding Bruce perpendicular to him. He could only hear knuckles to flesh, Bruce’s grunts, and his face when it met the metal bars of the door as they beat him. His knuckles turn white gripping the door, his tears steady when they stream down his face. He’s pathetic, alright, crying for Bruce.

Dick is shell shocked when they bring him back to the cell. He’s limp, prone on the cot, and he feels so sick and his throat is full of words he cannot speak. He doesn’t know how much time passed, watching them beat him to a pulp and laugh.

He drags himself across the floor, the entire cell block empty for now. It was him, Bruce, the dead of the night. It wasn't any sort of pretense, it was the both of them. He slumps against the metal of the cot, his fever burning him up and he shivers. 

“It’s gonna be okay, B,” he whispers into the night, wiping the blood unsteadily from his unrecognizable face. “Dad, please. I’m so sorry.”

Dick buries his face into Bruce’s shirt, twisting a fistful of the soft white cotton now stained with blood. His shirt is now drenched. He listens to Bruce’s wheezing chest. It’s all his fault this is happening.

His own surrogate father, the father who gave him a second chance at everything. When he was lonely, felt like dying, grieving, and a touch-starved abandoned child for reasons he didn’t understand, Bruce was there to pick him up. There are now open wounds scattered around his face, a broken eye vessel, cracked, aching bones, and his shirt tattered and torn.

He watched Bruce, listened to his faint pulse, listened to him mutter his name once in a daze. He whispers admissions to Bruce, to dad, protecting him from the goons. And the words are just for them.

“Do you remember that, B?” Dick asks, pretending he isn’t waning every minute. “Alfred got so mad at us when we were too distracted to answer his comms. Then, we went home and you scooped me up and Alfred looked _happy_ , because you.. you were my father. No questions asked.”

Bruce is almost asleep, “Yeah.”

They come back to take Bruce for _another_ beating that night, who’s lying in the cot still limp, unable to move, unable to hold Dick’s hand back. 

Dick strains to listen out in the hallway, hearing a body thud against a wall, the slide to the ground, and there were strikes and yelps and the familiar sound of a grapple, a batgrapple, retracting.

He doesn’t know what happens next, he’s blinded by smoke and an explosion and he’s thrown backwards into the metal toilet, his ears ringing from the resonating explosion. A grenade landed outside their cell, and before he could pass out, Red Robin grabbed him by the collar and smirked, “I said I owed you one, didn’t I?”

“That line was terrible, Timothy.”

“M’, help dad,” Dick mumbled, the taste of blood filling his mouth. He gets up jaggedly, waiting for them. This was dangerous territory. 

**Author's Note:**

> i really hope you enjoyed this piece!!! subscribe to my profile and my whumptober series if you’d like to see more!!
> 
> please leave (nice) comments and kudos. 
> 
> my [ twitter](https://twitter.com/batvrse) and [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/spideysforce)
> 
> \- jay <3


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